


but i have promises to keep, and miles to go before i sleep

by frogo



Category: Hannibal (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Gen, It’s a sick fic!!!, M/M, came out of the woodwork with offerings of wintery themed fluff, dONt worry there’s a happy ending, it all works out, kinda???, sick!galahad, this was supposed to be fluff but it got kinda angsty!!!, worried!tristan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogo/pseuds/frogo
Summary: He cannot remember the way she explained it to him, nor can he remember her tone, or even her voice. But, somehow, he knew that she was asking those that dwelt in the soul of the land to protect her and her family. A swear, from her and those that dwell in the earth separate from them, that she would return with kisses and warmth and bedtime stories of great beasts and wonders of the forest.And so it came to be that Tristan found himself re-enacting this very same ritual.He hadn’t meant to. It was the damned pup’s fault.
Relationships: Galahad/Tristan (King Arthur 2004), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58





	but i have promises to keep, and miles to go before i sleep

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the robert frost poem: stopping by woods on a snowy evening
> 
> seemed sufficiently winter-y and seasonal-y for this 
> 
> amazing announcement; i got a beta! their name is [Bismuth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bismuthhhhhhhhh/pseuds/bismuthhhhhhhhh) and they are absolutely wonderful and incredibly insightful, so happy to be able to work with them!
> 
> Enjoy! 💖

Of the little Tristan remembers of his life before the Roman legion took him away, he can still remember his family. His mother’s dirt streaked hair and wild smile. He can hear the way she would laugh at Tristans solemn attitude before poking and prodding at him until he couldn’t help but grin at her ridiculous antics. He remembers his fathers hobbled gait, and the pain in his face when they had to trek far and high into steep mountains in the hot months. Even the specific ways he chided misbehaving eagle hatchlings. He vaguely remembers he was not their only child, not their oldest, but definitively the tallest, and he was taken before they could try to communicate to the Romans of their mistake. Not that it would matter, the Romans only cared for the strongest and tallest, not the runty sons of a cripple and a Sarmatian bitch.

But what he remembers most clearly was the way his mother bade them farewell when she left to hunt. She would gather all her children in her circle of strength and love, and whisper promises of great feasts and bedtime tales of her adventures when she returned. She would kiss his father farewell, and when she exited the tent she would turn and kiss her hand for each child and her lover, before pressing it to the canvas (or whatever wall they had wrangled out of old cloth, even to the ground if neither was available). 

He cannot remember the way she explained it to him, nor can he remember her tone, or even her voice. But, somehow, he knew that she was asking those that dwelt in the soul of the land to protect her and her family. A swear, from her and those that dwell in the earth separate from them, that she would return with kisses and warmth and bedtime stories of great beasts and wonders of the forest. 

And so it came to be that Tristan found himself re-enacting this very same ritual. 

He hadn’t meant to. It was the damned pup’s fault. 

Galahad was...not the weakest of the knights per-say, he was a raging barbarian compared to Gaheris or Lanval who barely held their own in a fight. But he had always been small. 

Ever since the recruits, he was the smallest and one of the youngest, and never really grew out of his youthful countenance or his slight stature. In the first few weeks after he had been taken along with the other boys in his village he had been so sick, so often. The Romans would have abandoned him if not for the rage he held in his little body, always cursing the romans, learning latin out of spite just so he could insult them in their own tongue. The Romans valued the wrath in his eyes, but made sure he knew that _they allowed_ him life because he was too weak to attack them outright. 

It was then that Tristan decided that he did not care for him, but that he must protect this little boy that screamed and kicked and puked on the Romans

Galahad, in turn, decided he despised and loved Tristan the moment he knocked him onto his arse with a wooden sword and an inscrutable face. The love came from the fierce blow to his chest, and the despise from the seemingly mocking hand proffered to help him out of the mud.

It took years for them to finally initiate a tenuous relationship that exceeded the barriers of brotherhood and veered into the more hedonistic variety. 

One particularly harsh winter after the fact, Galahad fell ill on a excursion to woad lands. Luckily, they were on their return circuit and Galahad didn’t have to suffer through the long ride back alone. Though he did suffer immensely, since most of the knights were too delighted by his symptoms to sympathize with him. Though they _were_ all worried at first, when Galahad awoke pale and sweating in his cot and almost fell off his horse. Arthur quickly made sure he was taken care of with tonics and herbs before heaving him onto his horse and having his legs tied to his saddle and his horse tied to Tristans. Though it was quickly discovered that Galahad was so sick he could not speak. And the second the knights realized this, all sympathy or concern any had for Galahad’s well being had evaporated into mischievous joy. Many a comment and insult were thrown at a delirious and fuming Galahad from almost every knight, even Tristan out of love, of course, but most came from Bors and Lancelot. 

Luckily for Galahad, Arthur directed them on a shorter route back to their walled fortress, and to Tristans delight, he was to carry Galahad from the back of his horse and to hoist him upon it at every stop. What a magnificent torture it was to be the newfound subject of his lover’s fiery wrath trained upon him and the occasional puke to decorate his armor after a particularly brutal day of riding or insults. 

They still had quite a ways to go until they breached the walls, and Tristan was growing anxious. They had been riding for some time and no amount of herbs and salves had lessened Galahad’s sickness. 

Tristan was worried.

They had been riding most of the day and Galahad had been swaying dangerously on his horse for some time now, and Tristan was glad for their respite so that he may carry Galahad to lay down and to check his condition.

“Oi Galahad, had one too many? You’re redder than Bors’ arse” Lancelot jested, expecting to insight an adorably helpless reaction from Galahad, but Galahad’s head lolled onto Tristans chest and his lungs heaved wetly.

“Come now Galahad, not coming to defend my honor? What of my arse, eh?” Bors adds on.

“Galahad! How could you drink on a mission? Who’ll protect Bors’ arse from the woads?”

Galahad, usually silently fuming by now, heaved and trembled. His breathing descended into hacking gulps, a mixture of insistent coughs and desperate gasps. Quickly, Tristan removed his cloak from his shoulders as best he could with one arm, and laid it on top of the light sheen of snow on the ground. He gently descended to his knees so that he could lay Galahad down yet still kept his arms around him. 

Galahad’s eyes were distant, glassy like a lambs, and he stared into the sky with an unseeing gaze. His head kept lolling, like he had lost all strength and couldn’t even support it. 

Tristan found himself whispering tender nonsense to Galahad in their native tongue, hoping to bring his focus back to him and to the present. His hands wandered over his chest, his wrist, his neck, his face, trying to find the root of his waning health. Finally, he felt his forehead, and was greeted with a heat that made him yank his hand away and curse.

“No...” Tristan felt like his stomach had dropped out from him. How could he have been so foolish, he hadn’t checked Galahad’s temperature this morning, he’d been in too high spirits and delirious from the joy of wasting the night away kissing each other and sharing sleepy smiles. Now he would lose his pup for such frivolities. 

He grabbed a handful of snow besides him and crushed it to Galahad’s forehead. He must put out the heat. His pup must not die.

The other knights must have wisened to the situation and either made themselves scarce or crowded to manage and shove and root for amenities to help. Though Tristan only had eyes for his pup, and could’ve cried when he finally ( _finally!_ ) blinked and focused his gaze on Tristan. Something flickered there, the spark that ignited every time their eyes met since they were but children. 

Then, he passed out. 

Tristan scrambled to feel his fingers catch the throb of a pulse at Galahad’s neck. The beat that greeted him was slow but persistent. Thumping in time with his slow exhales that turned the air foggy. 

“We must not stay here. The weather is worsening his condition.” Arthur had appeared at Tristans shoulder at some time, stoic and masking any worry or fear he felt for Galahad’s condition. “We ride, no respite. If we keep going through the night we should arrive at the Wall by sunset tomorrow.”

Once more, they mounted, though this time with Galahad’s horse tied to Tristans, and Galahad cradled in front of him, back to the winter gales and face turned to the crook of Tristans’ neck. His breaths puffed out onto the sliver of skin exposed from his layers, and between each Tristan feared the next might not come, that his pup would grow stiff and cold before they reached the walls and they must bury him with their shield brothers. 

Tristan draped his cloak over Galahad’s so as to conserve the most warmth and to shelter him from the growing winds. Galahad’s fever burned like a brand on Tristans neck, no matter how much salve he smoothed upon it.

———

When they finally reached the wall, Tristan’s sense had all but left him. He dismounted before his horse had even stopped, and yelled like a madman for the physicians.

Everything rushed by in a blur, Tristan lifted Galahad down from the saddle and rushed through the courtyard into the great stone building that the physicians lurked in all hours of the day. The smell of death and blood had seeped into the walls. 

Galahad’s chest rasped and his head lolled. 

The physicians eyes gleamed like vultures with curiosity and they murmured to each other in latin before beckoning Tristan to lay Galahad onto a cot. 

And there he stayed through the night and in the days to come. Clutching his pup’s hand and reciting prayers to Sarmatian spirits he had long forgot the names of, even once to Arthur’s Roman god in the bleak of a night when Galahad was deathly pale and his breaths came slower and thicker. He’d not gotten any sleep that night, so fearful that he may wake to and empty cot or a still chest and a cold hand.

Several of the knights visited him. They passed with no distinction in his mind, all his focus trained upon his pup, and in willing his chest to rise and fall.

Galahad still hadn’t woken. There were slight moments of clarity where he murmured and slurred for water, for less blankets, and even on occasion for Tristan. Though true awareness and consciousness hadn’t returned to him.

Tristan could tell the physicians were beginning to wonder if their efforts would be wasted. 

Then Galahad’s fever broke in the early hours of the morning. 

———

Arthur assigned Tristan a scouting expedition. 

Tristan had stepped out for a bath when the physicians had threatened to throw him out from the walls if he didn’t clean himself, and that his stench was impeding Galahad’s recovery.

So he stalked to the bathhouses, chastised and fuming. 

Arthur cornered him outside after he had quickly and perfunctorily cleaned himself with his orders.

“We’ve received word that there is an outpost of Woads encroaching on roman lands”, He began.

“And? What’s this to do with me?” Tristan knows exactly what this has to do with him. Yet he hopes it won’t be as he thinks. 

“I want you to scout it out, and bring back any information you can glean. Their numbers, if any, their temperament.”

“Arthur, I’ve no wish to leave with Galahad in this condition.”

The lines around Arthur’s mouth tightened as they do when he feels guilt or sadness. Each of the knights by now had become familiar with them, after seeing them deepen many times. 

“I know. But you must not waste away while his health improves by the day.” 

Tristan sighs. The matter has already been decided, wether or not he has any input. “Is this an order?”

“Only if you refuse” 

———

Iseult keened and peeked at Tristan when he finally visited her. His horse balked at the saddle reluctantly, he had spent many a week without work and lazing about the stables. 

His body remembered the motions of pulling on his armor and strapping his tack to his horse, yet his mind was far away with Galahad. 

He briefly returned to himself when Iseult stabbed at his hand with her beak for strips of meat. He had almost forgotten her bag of feed for the trip. Distractedly stroking her in thanks and readying the last of everything before double checking once more and leaving the stable.

He made one last stop to Galahad to say farewell. He almost caved and sat in his chair once more to keep watch over his pup. But when he went to sit his armor rattled and clinked, uncomfortably pinching him and reminding him of his mission and his orders. Instead, he leaned forward over Galahad and brushed his lips across his cheek, before resting their foreheads together for a moment.

“Tristan”

Mumbled, slurred, yet still the name sent his heart thumping and his eyes snapped open. Galahad was still asleep, deeply so. Yet still....Yet still...

His pup was recovering, he would live. His heart still had yet to allow itself hope.

Tristan felt as though leaving caused him physical pain. Was this how his mother felt every time she left her family to provide for them? Surely the gleam of her eyes wasn’t all fire light. 

These thoughts came unbidden to him as he mounted his horse, he hadn’t thought of his family in the light of day for many years now. Galahad always did bring out things inside of Tristan that he’d never been able to predict. 

He urged his horse to a trot, then to a gallop. The wind was rushing through his hair and when he looked back at this moment, he could hardly tell what possessed him to raise his hand to his lips and kiss it as he rode faster and faster to the gate set in the wall. When he reached it, he threw his hand out wide to the side and it drew across the thick stone, scrapped against the jagged rocks, cutting his fingers and flinging red into the crisp winter air. 

A blood oath, the spirits must honor his swear.

He would return.

———

**Author's Note:**

> How was it? lemme know! 
> 
> Your comments poke fun at an adorably mad galahad, your kudos comfort a hysterical tristan


End file.
